věx-a'-tion (věk-sā'-shun) state of being troubled. săc'-ri-fice to give up something in order to gain something else. bê-něv'-ō-lĕnt—having a desire to do good; generous; kind. When I was a little boy, I remember, one cold winter' morning, I was accosted by a smiling man with an ax on his shoulder. "My pretty boy," said he, "has your father 8 grindstone?” "You are a fine little fellow!" said he. "Will you let me grind my ax on it?” Pleased with the compliment of "fine little fellow," "Oh, yes, sir," I answered. "It is down in the shop." "And will you, my man," said he, patting me on the head, "get me a little hot water?” How could I refuse? I ran, and soon brought a kettleful. "How old are you?-and what's your name?" continued he, without waiting for a reply. "I'm sure you are one of the 10 finest lads that I have ever seen. Will you just turn a few minutes for me?" Tickled with the flattery, like a little fool, I went to work, and bitterly did I rue the day. It was a new ax, and I toiled and tugged till I was almost tired to death. The school 15 bell rang, and I could not get away. My hands were blistered, and the ax was not half ground. 20 At length, however, it was sharpened, and the man turned to me with, "Now, you little rascal, you've played truant! Scud to the school, or you'll rue it!" "Alas!" thought I, "it was hard enough to turn a grindstone this cold day, but now to be called a little rascal is too much.” It sank deep into my mind, and often have I thought of it since. VOCABULARY: com'-pli-ment—an expression of approval. in-grǎt'-i-tūde—a lack of thankfulness; ill return for a favor. William Cullen Bryant (1794-1878) was born in the rugged hill country of western Massachusetts. He removed to New York and became editor of the "Evening Post,” a position which he continued to hold throughout his long life. He was kind and polite to all. He had a remarkable memory and it is said he could repeat "by heart" every poem he had written. 1 When beechen buds begin to swell, And woods the blue-bird's warble know, The yellow violet's modest bell Peeps from the last year's leaves below. 2 Ere russet fields their green resume, 3 Of all her train, the hands of Spring And I have seen thee blossoming |